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@federalchickensoup
Copy or Run my shit through AI & you'll get the days you deserve.
Masterlist: Sinners (2025): Remmick/Reader Southern Custard.
Le Jeune Martyre.
Anon Request/Asks: 30 July 2025: Hedonistic Comfort 22 July 2025: A New Religion 15 August 2025: He's a Bad Egg 19 August 2025: Welcome to the Party
Reviews: Ruined by You by @theeafterparty444
Lovely to see we have spaces where you can gain access to so much literature!
LEON S. KENNEDY RESIDENT EVIL dev. Capcom
On my knees you say?
I screamed
THE oscars look
by @erennren !!
New bts photos of Remmick!!
Two-Shot
✪ pairing: Jack Solomon x fem!reader
✪ summary: Weeks after the traffic stop that changed everything, you find out you’re pregnant. Jack is already waiting outside your house with a plan for what you’re going to tell people.
And none of it includes the truth.
✪ wc: 6.5k
✪ a/n: happy birthday @nimisardenter!! jack was one of the characters you requested for your birthday blurbs, and since a few people were asking for a follow up to By the Book anyway, it felt like the perfect excuse to write this. also just wanted to say how much i love and appreciate you, you’re one of my best friends i’ve met through the jack o’community. so glad we got to hang out in chicago, and now i’m already looking forward to salem in the fall. hope you enjoy this, you king on earth!! banner credit goes to @scannainscanrula
✪ warnings: dub-con, coercion, abuse of power, blackmail, piv, unprotected sex, creampie, spit play/kink, d/s dynamics, praise/degradation kink, manipulation, gaslighting, cheating kink, infidelity, corruption of authority, stalking undertones, possessiveness, jealousy, humiliation, emotional conflict, power imbalance, police misconduct (what else is new), panty-sniffing/theft (trophy kink), implied obsession, pregnancy, oral (m! receiving), hair pulling, face slapping, wet and messy
✪ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
✪ Part I / Masterlist
Part II: Burden of Proof
You don’t notice the date at first.
You blame the headaches, the nausea, the way every smell in your tiny kitchen has suddenly become weaponized. Coffee makes you gag. Toast makes you gag. The laundry detergent you’ve used for the last three years smells too sharp, too floral, like you’re being suffocated by fabric softener.
You tell yourself it’s stress. That’s easy enough to believe.
Ever since that night, sleep has been a suggestion, not a guarantee. Some nights you don’t sleep at all. You just lie there in the dark, staring at the faint glow of your phone on the nightstand, listening for a patrol car that never pulls into your driveway.
You still see the lights, though, when you close your eyes.
Red. Blue. The white spear of his flashlight through your window. The way his voice dropped when he said step out of the vehicle.
You should hate him. Part of you does. The part that flinches when you see the cruiser roll past on Main, that ducks down the baking aisle at the grocery store if you catch even a glimpse of his profile from the corner of your eye.
Another part of you—some traitorous, buried vein—remembers the weight of his hands and goes hot all over.
You ignore that part. You have to.
You’re doing inventory at the little bookstore on a Tuesday when your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull it out without thinking, thumb swiping over the screen. The group chat with Linette and the girls lights up.
Linette: okay i found the CUTEST baby clothes to show you later Stephanie: again?? you’re going to drown that kid in onesies Linette: we take those risks in this house
You smile automatically, then freeze.
Your stomach twists—not in the now-familiar, vaguely seasick way, but with a deeper lurch.
How long has it been since the baby shower?
You open your calendar app with suddenly clumsy fingers. Your thumb drags over the weeks. There’s the pastel balloon arch day, circled with a little heart you doodled on the paper invite. There’s the night he pulled you over, that same date stamped in the back of your skull like a bruise.
Two weeks. Three. Four.
Your gaze drops lower. To the tiny mark you usually make without thinking.
Nothing.
You blink. Count again. Then again, slower.
You’re late.
The bottom drops out of the world.
You exhale sharply, the sound too loud in the empty store. The shelves swim for a second, spines blurring.
Stress, you think wildly. It has to be. You’ve been sleeping like shit. You’ve barely been eating. Your whole system is scrambled from adrenaline and guilt and—
And he didn’t use anything.
The thought hits like a car.
You grip the shelf until the tips of your fingers drain of color.
No. No. That’s not…it doesn’t have to mean anything. Bodies are weird. Cycles shift. You could just be off. You could—
You could be exactly what Linette joked you’d be.
You’ll be next.
Your throat tightens.
You make it through the rest of your shift, somehow. You ring people up, you restock a display, you answer a question about new releases. You smile, and nod, and every time you glance at the clock it feels like the second hand’s moving too slow.
The second you lock the front door, you’re moving.
The gas station sits on the edge of town, hunched under the same flickering halogen lights that watched you speed past on that night you swore you’d never think about again.
You pull into the lot on autopilot.
It feels obscene, walking in here for something so small and world-ending. The aisles smell like burnt coffee and sugar and old fryer oil. You grab a cheap bottle of water you won’t drink just so you don’t look like you walked in solely for—
You stand in front of the pharmacy section for a full thirty seconds, just staring.
There’s a whole wall of them. Soft pinks, clinical blues, cheery fonts promising accuracy and easy results.
You pick one. Then you pick two, because your brain has already leapt ahead to what if it’s defective.
The cashier doesn’t look at you twice. You’re grateful and offended at the same time.
You’re going to throw up.
The bathroom is tiny and off to the side, next to the ice machine. The lock sticks; you have to shove the door with your shoulder to make it close.
Your hands shake so badly you almost drop the box.
You rip through the cardboard, plastic crinkling, instructions blurring. You’ve seen enough movies, read enough horror stories on forums—you know roughly how this goes.
Minutes stretch, slow and syrupy.
You stare at the little window on the test, not really breathing.
One line.
You exhale shakily, tension starting to uncoil in your spine, your body already preparing the speech you’re going to give yourself about being dramatic, about how of course it was just stress, of course you—
The second line ghosts into existence, faint but undeniable.
You sit down hard on the closed toilet lid.
The buzzing fluorescent light above you seems to grow louder. The laminate walls close in. Your heart does an ugly lurch against your ribs.
Two lines.
Positive.
The baby shower snaps into focus in your mind like someone pushed play on a reel:
Linette’s glow, hand on her bump. Her laughing, “You’ll be next,” while she looped an arm through yours. The smell of frosting and latex. Jack in the doorway, watching.
You clamp a hand over your mouth.
There’s no one else it could be. You haven’t…you weren’t…there was only him. That night. On the hood of your car with his hand on the back of your neck and his—
You squeeze your eyes shut against the memory so hard it hurts.
You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for the overhead light to flicker twice. Long enough for someone outside to rattle the handle, curse, and leave.
When you finally stand, your legs feel hollow.
You wrap the test in so much toilet paper it looks like you’re trying to mummy a mouse, bury it in the little bathroom trash can under a wad of old receipts. You wash your hands. You splash cold water on your face. You dry your skin with the rough paper towel longer than necessary, scrubbing until the sensation borders on painful.
You look at yourself in the streaked mirror.
You don’t look like someone whose life just tilted on its axis. You look…normal. A little off, maybe. Eyes a bit too wide.
You look like the kind of girl who leaves a baby shower early and ends up on the side of a dark road making the worst decision of her life.
You drive home in silence.
No music. No podcasts. Just the sound of the engine and the wind and your own thoughts eating you alive.
You build a plan as you drive, because that’s the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely.
You won’t tell him. That’s the first rule. Jack doesn’t need to know. He used you, coerced you, walked back to his car like nothing happened. Whatever this is, it's not a shared problem.
You’ll handle it.
You’ll…figure something out.
The town will talk, sure. People always do. Pregnancy out of wedlock is still something to cluck tongues over here, something to speculate about at church and in line at the post office. But you can survive that. You’ve survived worse.
You’ll say it was a stranger. A tourist. Someone passing through. A night you regret and that’s that.
You grip the steering wheel tighter.
You will not give him the power again.
By the time you turn onto your street, you’ve repeated the mantra enough that it almost feels real. Your little rental house sits at the end of the cul-de-sac, porch light still burnt out because you keep forgetting to change the bulb. The sky above it is a dense navy, stars smeared faintly overhead.
You kill your headlights as you pull into the driveway, savoring the brief darkness.
When you see the shape parked at the curb, you think, irrationally, that’s not real. That’s just your brain, primed for panic, making ghosts out of shadows.
Then the patrol car’s reflector glints just right.
Your stomach drops.
He’s leaned against the hood like he's been there a while.
One ankle hooked over the other. Arms folded. The brim of his hat tilted back just enough that you can see his face, lit by the weak spill of light from the nearest streetlamp.
Jack Solomon, waiting in front of your house like this is a social call.
For a heartbeat, you consider throwing the car into reverse and flooring it. Running. Like you could outrun his cruiser. Like you could outrun him.
Instead, you sit there with the engine ticking and your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.
He waits. Doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t wave.
He doesn’t have to. He already knows you’ll get out.
You do, eventually.
The night air is cool and damp, smelling faintly of rain that hasn’t fallen yet. Gravel crunches under your shoes as you close the car door with hands that aren’t entirely steady.
“Evening,” he says.
It’s the same word he used on the side of the road.
Your throat feels too tight. “You can’t be here.”
He lifts an eyebrow, like that’s funny. “Pretty sure I can. Public street.”
“My house isn’t public.”
He glances past you at the dark windows, then back, one corner of his mouth twitching.
“You gonna invite me in, or are we doing this on the lawn?”
Your pulse stutters. “Doing what?”
He pushes off the hood with a casual roll of his shoulders, straightening to his full height. Up close, he’s even worse. The uniform. The badge. The way he seems perfectly relaxed while you’re vibrating out of your own skin.
“Conversation,” he says. “Maybe a check-in. You’ve been…quiet.”
You let out a laugh that sounds more like a hiccup. “We’re not friends, Jack.”
He tilts his head. “Funny. Thought we got pretty close last time we saw each other.”
Heat crawls up your neck. You look away, jaw clenched so hard your teeth ache.
He sighs, like you’re being difficult on purpose.
“Look,” he says. “We can stand out here all night, let your neighbors get curious, or we can step inside and you can hear what I have to say. Your call.”
You hate that he’s framed it like that. Like he’s giving you a choice. Like this isn’t just another situation where he’s already decided the outcome.
You picture Mrs. Dorsey from two houses down peeking through her curtains, phone already in hand. Do you know there’s a patrol car outside that girl’s place?
You unlock the door.
Jack follows you in without waiting for an invitation.
The inside of your house feels smaller with him in it. The living room’s soft lamplight spills over the mismatched furniture, the stack of folded laundry on the couch, the mug you left on the coffee table this morning and forgot to take to the sink.
He stands in the doorway, looking around like he’s cataloging the scene.
“Cozy,” he says.
“Why are you here?” You close the door a little too hard. The sound makes you flinch.
He takes his time answering. First he shrugs off his hat, setting it on the little console table by the door. Then he unclips his radio from his shoulder, turning the volume down until it’s just a faint murmur of static and distant voices.
Only when he’s made the room feel like it's his name on the lease does he look at you properly.
“You don’t look so good,” he says.
You bark out a hollow laugh. “Thanks.”
He steps closer, eyes scanning your face, the shadows under your eyes, the way your hoodie hangs looser than usual.
“How late are you?”
The question punches the air out of you.
You stare at him. “What?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It’s a simple enough question.”
You swallow. Your mouth is dry. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, to your stomach. It’s still the same under the hoodie, nothing visibly different. That doesn’t seem to matter to him.
“Sure you do,” he says. “You’ve been avoiding Linette. Haven’t had a drink in your hand the last few times you were out. You nearly passed out in the dairy aisle yesterday.”
Your cheeks burn. You hadn’t realized he was there.
“You followed me?” The words come out strangled.
“Followed?” he repeats, like the word is foreign on his tongue. “I was in the store. Same as you. Small town, remember?”
You remember the feeling of someone behind you when you were comparing milk prices. The way you’d told yourself you were just being paranoid.
“I’ve been working,” you say. “I’ve been tired. That’s it.”
He hums thoughtfully, unconvinced.
“Take a test yet?” he asks.
Your throat closes.
He watches the answer move across your face before you can clamp it down. Something like satisfaction flickers through his eyes.
“How late?” he asks again, softer now.
You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to tuck in, make less space for his gaze to land on.
“A few weeks,” you whisper. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
The urge to lie is overwhelming. To say you were mistaken, that the test was inconclusive, that you’re just sick.
He steps close enough that his presence presses against you like a wall.
“How many days, sweetheart?” he pushes, voice calm. “Thirty? More?”
You stare at a spot on his chest, where the dark fabric stretches over his vest.
“Forty-two,” you say, before you can stop yourself.
He lets out a slow breath.
“There it is.”
You feel lightheaded. “This isn’t—this doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
One of his eyebrows ticks up. “Doesn’t it?”
You grit your teeth. “It’s my body. My problem.”
He considers that for a moment, eyes flicking back to your stomach.
“You planning on getting rid of my problem?” he asks.
The phrasing makes you flinch.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t, either.” He tips his head, watching you. “You want to?”
You picture a clinic two towns over. Paper gowns. Harsh lights. The knowledge that you'll be sitting in the waiting room alone, because there's no one you can reasonably ask to come with you without unraveling your entire life.
You picture Linette’s face, the way she would crumple if she knew any of this.
You picture a tiny, hypothetical person who didn’t ask to exist between your fear and his bad decisions.
“I don’t know,” you whisper.
He studies you for a long, silence-heavy moment.
“That’s honest,” he says eventually. “I’ll give you that.”
Anger flares, sharp enough to burn through some of the fog.
“Why do you care?” you demand. “You didn’t care if I regretted anything else that night.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“This isn’t regret,” he says. “This is consequence.”
You laugh, disbelieving. “You’re talking like this is something you didn’t cause.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Didn’t hear you telling me to stop.”
Your stomach sours. “You gave me a choice between jail and letting you fuck me on the side of the road.”
“Still a choice,” he says quietly.
You want to hit him. You want to scream. Instead you find yourself sagging back against the wall, the weight of the day and the nausea and the test pressing down on you until you feel like you’re being crushed.
“What do you want from me?” you ask, exhausted.
His eyes soften in a way that makes you feel worse.
“For starters?” he says. “I want to know if you’re keeping it.”
You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, palms pressed to your ribs.
“I don’t know,” you repeat.
He steps closer, crowding into your space until his chest is inches from yours. You can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the small scar near his temple you’ve never asked about. You can smell his aftershave, familiar now in a way you wish it wasn’t.
“You will,” he says. “Soon.”
The implication slithers under your skin. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, “that doing nothing is still an answer. Clock’s ticking.”
The room feels too warm. Too close. You push off the wall, moving past him toward the couch if only to put distance between you.
He doesn’t stop you, but he turns with you, tracking your every step.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you mutter.
“Nowhere more important,” he says.
Your laugh is bitter. “You’ve got a wife. You’ve got a baby on the way.”
His gaze flicks down again. To your midsection. “Do I?”
Your chest tightens. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
He’s quiet for a beat. When he speaks, his voice is a shade softer.
“I’m not the only one lying to her,” he says.
You flinch like he’s slapped you.
He moves in, pressing just enough to keep you from building another layer of defensive anger.
“This is messy,” he goes on. “I know that. I’m not pretending it’s not. But pretending I don’t have a stake in what happens next? That’s not gonna fly.”
“You don’t get a say,” you snap, even though every part of you knows how false that is.
He huffs out a humorless little laugh.
“Princess,” he says, “if that were true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows it. Silence stretches between you, thick as tar. You’re the one who breaks it.
“What happens if I keep it?” you ask, voice barely audible.
His gaze lifts back to your face.
“That depends,” he says.
“On what?”
“On whether you’re smart about it.”
You swallow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he says slowly, “you don’t go around town telling people you got knocked up by a married cop.”
The bluntness makes your cheeks burn hot.
“I wouldn’t,” you whisper, horrified.
He nods. “Good. Because you’re the one they’ll crucify, not me.”
He’s not wrong. The thought makes your skin crawl.
“The stigma alone,” he continues, almost clinically. “Unplanned pregnancy. No ring. No name. You think they’re going to be kind about that?”
You picture the looks. The whispers. The way people already talk about girls who “get themselves into trouble.”
You’re suddenly nauseous for reasons that have nothing to do with hormones.
“You’re enjoying this,” you say, disgusted.
He considers it.
“Enjoying?” he echoes. “No. I don’t enjoy seeing you scared.”
You look up sharply, skepticism etched over your features.
“What I do enjoy,” he adds quietly, “is knowing you’re not going to make the wrong kind of noise.”
You shiver.
He takes a step toward you, then another, until you’re backed up against the arm of the couch. Your knees knock against the cushion. You stumble, catching yourself with a hand on the armrest.
He doesn’t crowd you further. Not yet. Just stands close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him.
“You’re not going on any more dates,” he says, matter-of-fact.
It’s so abrupt you blink. “What?”
He lifts a brow. “Don’t play dumb. You think people didn’t notice you sniffing around that guy from the bar? They sure did when it all dried up.”
Embarrassment crawls up your spine.
“I—I went out for a drink,” you say. “Once.”
“And now you’re not,” he says.
“Because I’m nauseous all the time,” you snap. “Not because of you.”
He smiles, slow and infuriating.
“Ends up in the same place,” he says. “You’re not exactly prime girlfriend material right now.”
The words land like a slap. You open your mouth, then close it, because there’s nothing you can say that doesn’t make you sound pathetic.
He steps closer, finally closing the last inches between you. His knees brush yours.
“That’s the thing about small towns,” he says quietly. “People might forgive a little fun. But pregnant and single?” He clucks his tongue softly. “They don’t forget that.”
You swallow hard.
“So what?” you whisper. “You just get to watch me go through this and sit pretty with your perfect little family? I take all the hits, and you walk away clean?”
His eyes darken.
“You think I’m walking away from this?” he asks.
You frown. “Aren’t you?”
He shakes his head, once.
“No, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m in it. Whether you like it or not.”
There’s a weight to the words that makes your skin prickle.
“You don’t get to be in it,” you say, but it comes out thin.
He leans down, bracing one hand on the back of the couch, the other on the armrest near your hip, caging you in without actually touching you.
“Didn’t ask for permission,” he murmurs.
Your heart stutters.
“Jack,” you warn.
He watches your mouth when you say his name.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly. “Again.”
You hadn’t noticed. Now that he’s pointed it out, you can’t stop noticing. Your fingers twitch where they’re curled around the arm of the couch. Your knees tremble against his thighs.
“Is that fear,” he asks, voice dropping, “or excitement?”
You hate that you don’t know.
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
He smiles, and there it is—that same quiet, satisfied look he had when he pressed you over the hood of your car and listened to you fall apart.
“There she is,” he says. “Knew you’d still be in there.”
He shifts, one hand sliding down from the back of the couch to brush the side of your neck, thumb resting against the quick little pulse pounding there.
“You’re not going to tell anyone,” he says. “Not about the road. Not about this. Not about me.”
Your breath comes faster.
“You're going to be very, very careful,” he continues. “You’re going to let them think whatever they want. About some stranger. Some mistake. And when they’re done gawking and judging and feeling superior…” His thumb strokes your throat, gentle and possessive. “…you’re going to remember who actually put that baby there.”
Your eyes sting.
“What do you want from me,” you whisper, voice breaking, “right now?”
His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lower, to where the hem of your hoodie sits bunched at your hips. When his eyes come back to yours, they’re darker.
“Right now?” he repeats. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t know.”
The air between you crackles.
He leans in. His mouth is right there, close enough that your lips part on instinct. He doesn’t kiss you. He hovers, breath ghosting over your skin, drawing it out until your muscles ache from holding yourself so still.
“Last chance,” he says quietly. “Tell me to leave, and I walk out that door. We don’t have this conversation again.”
You know he’s lying. You know that even if he did walk out, that wouldn’t be the end.
Your fingers dig into the upholstery.
“You won’t take the baby away from me?” you hear yourself ask, hating how small you sound.
His thumb presses more firmly into your neck.
“No,” he says. “I won’t take anything away from you.”
He doesn’t say he won’t take more.
Your heart hammers. You don’t tell him to leave.
He smiles, slow and sure, like he knew you wouldn’t.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
He closes the remaining distance, and you barely get a breath out before his mouth crashes into yours—not a kiss, a claim. His hand clamps around the back of your neck, pulling you in, fingers digging just enough to say don’t even think about pulling away.
You gasp, and he takes advantage immediately, tongue pushing in, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him.
He kisses you like he’s already fucked you, like he’s just resuming something that never really stopped.
You don’t think. You can’t. Thinking would require space, and he’s already stripped that from you.
He tastes like mint and the cold night air and the memory of every time you told yourself you weren’t going to let this happen again.
His other hand fists the front of your hoodie, dragging you closer, forcing your body to meet his, and you feel him—already hard, already thick against your stomach like your fear and anger and trembling only turned him on more.
You make a weak sound of protest, palm braced against his chest.
He slaps your hand away without breaking the kiss.
Not hard. Just enough to say don’t fucking test me.
Your breath stutters.
“Don’t start that,” he growls against your lips. “Not after everything you just told me.”
Jack stands over you, chest rising, eyes dark and heavy-lidded—not with hesitation, but with decision.
“Up,” he says, hooking two fingers under your chin. “On your knees.”
Your stomach drops. “J-Jack—”
He grabs your jaw harder, fingers pressing into the hinge, not cruel but unmistakably controlling.
“Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “you want to pretend you don’t know the rules now?”
Heat lands low in your belly, shameful and bright.
Your knees settle on the carpet before you even consciously agree.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, undoing his belt with one hand while the other stays locked on your hair. “Knew you remembered.”
You swallow when he frees himself—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. He holds the base, strokes once, slow and deliberate, thumb smearing the precum around the crown.
Your thighs clench.
He notices.
“Oh, you missed this,” he says, a low taunt. “Look at you. Knees wide and shaking, just from seeing my cock.”
“I didn’t—” you start, cheeks burning.
He tugs your hair, snapping your gaze up to his.
“Don’t lie,” he says. “Makes you sound stupid.”
Your breath catches. Something in you folds.
Jack guides his cock to your mouth, tapping the head against your lips, smearing slick across them.
“Open.”
You hesitate—half a second, maybe.
He slaps you lightly across the cheek. A sharp sting. A shock of heat.
“Open.”
You do.
He feeds himself between your lips, groaning when your tongue brushes the underside.
“Good girl,” he breathes. “Fuck, I forgot how warm you are.”
He pushes deeper—not brutally, but with the same steady pressure he uses to pin suspects against squad cars. Your throat tightens around him, and he shudders, hand in your hair tightening.
Your eyes water as he sets the pace, hips rocking slow, controlled, each thrust sinking him farther into your mouth.
“That’s it,” he praises, voice rough. “Take it. You owe me that much.”
You whimper around him—humiliation and something darker twisting together—and his cock twitches on your tongue.
He pulls out abruptly, spit and precum stringing from your lips to the tip.
You gasp for air.
He grabs your face with both hands, thumb pressing into your cheek, forcing your jaw open again. He spits directly into your mouth—hot and wet—rubbing it across your tongue with his thumb.
“Swallow.”
You do.
His eyes go half-lidded. “Good girl.”
Jack shoves you backward onto the couch, climbing on top of you before you can catch your breath. His weight presses you into the cushions, his knee forcing your thighs apart.
“You’re not saying no,” he murmurs, sliding his hand down your stomach, under your waistband. “Not even trying.”
“I—I shouldn’t—”
He laughs, mean and quiet, fingers finding you wet.
“Shouldn’t,” he mocks. “And yet your pussy’s fucking soaked for me.”
Your hips jerk when he slides two fingers along your slit, gathering slick and bringing it up so you can see it glistening on his fingertips.
“Look at how messy you are,” he taunts. “Pregnant and still this easy.”
Your breath shakes. You want to deny it. You can’t.
He rips your pants and underwear down together, shoving them to your knees.
Then he grabs your ankles and drags you down the couch until your hips hang half off the edge, legs spread around his waist.
He lines himself up.
You panic for a fraction of a second, hands pressing against his shoulders.
“Jack—wait—”
He smacks your cheek again—firmer this time—not enough to hurt, but enough to jolt you.
“Don’t fucking pretend you’re stopping this.”
Your inhale breaks.
He hooks your knees over his forearms, folding you open, forcing your thighs practically to your chest—a vicious, locked-in mating press that steals your breath.
“Oh,” he murmurs, gaze dropping between you. “There’s my girl.”
You shake your head weakly, lips trembling.
He tightens his grip, his body caging yours completely.
“Tell me you don’t want it,” he says, tip pressing against your swollen entrance. “Go on. Tell me.”
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
He smiles—cruel, triumphant.
“Thought so.”
He pushes in with one brutal, claiming thrust, bottoming out in a single, overwhelming stroke.
Your cry is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you again—hot, deep, devouring—hips grinding you into the cushions.
He fucks you hard immediately, no buildup, no easing you in—every thrust thick, slick, wet from how much you’ve already given him.
“God—fuck—this cunt,” he snarls into your neck. “Can’t stay away from me. Couldn’t last a month without needing this cock.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders but he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, holding you open, helpless beneath him.
“You hear me?” he growls. “You’re mine now. Mine to fuck. Mine to fill.”
Your legs shake around him, the angle brutal, direct, hitting deep enough you see white stars at the edges of your vision.
“You’re gonna take every drop,” he says, thrusts getting sloppier, wetter. “Just like last time.”
“Jack—please—”
His grip tightens around your throat just enough to make your breath thin.
“That’s right,” he pants. “Beg. Beg while I pump another baby into you.”
Your body breaks. Your orgasm hits like it’s been coiled inside you for weeks—violent, uncontrollable, your pussy clenching so hard around him he groans loud against your ear.
“Fuck—oh, fuck, that’s it—milk my cock—”
His hips slam into you once, twice, then he buries himself to the hilt and cums, hot and thick, spilling deep inside you in long, shaking pulses that make your toes curl.
He doesn’t pull out.
He stays pressed against you, breath hot and uneven, hand stroking your stomach possessively as his cum spills into you.
Only when he’s done—when the aftershocks run through both of you—does he finally loosen his grip on your wrists.
You curl into the corner of the couch, clothes skewed, hair mussed, skin still humming. Your breathing slowly drags itself back down from frantic.
Jack stands in front of the coffee table, straightening his uniform with practiced efficiency. The contrast makes your chest hurt.
He does up his belt, smooths his shirt. Adjusts his vest. He could be preparing for any shift, any traffic stop, any random Tuesday call.
You’re the only evidence anything happened.
Him and the bruises blooming under your skin.
And the possibility growing inside you.
He picks up his hat from the table, then pauses, looking down at you.
“You alive?” he asks.
You swallow. “Unfortunately.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he says. “You’re tougher than you look.”
You glare weakly. “Is that what you tell all the women you—”
He cuts you off with a look.
You shut your mouth.
Silence stretches, heavy and weirdly intimate.
He breaks it this time.
“So,” he says. “We should talk about what you’re telling people.”
Your stomach swoops. “I haven’t even—I haven’t told anyone anything.”
“Good,” he says. “Let’s keep it that way until your story’s straight.”
The phrasing makes you want to laugh and scream at the same time.
“I’m not…I’m not giving them your name,” you say.
“Correct,” he says. “You’re not.”
He sits on the edge of the coffee table, close enough that his knees brush yours again. His posture is relaxed, like this is just another briefing.
“You’re going to say it was someone passing through,” he says. “Man you met one night. Or a one-time mistake when you were out of town, if that feels cleaner. I’d stick with the stranger, though. Harder to poke holes in.”
Your skin crawls. “People will talk.”
“People already talk,” he says, unfazed. “This just gives them something new to chew on.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“It is,” he agrees. “Because they’re not going to be looking at me.”
You swallow bile. “So I just…what? Live with everyone thinking I’m careless and stupid and couldn’t even get a name?”
He lifts a shoulder.
“Better than them knowing you’re sleeping with your friend’s husband,” he says mildly.
You flinch.
“Besides,” he adds, “you’re not going to be sleeping with anyone else.”
The casual certainty in his voice punches the air out of you.
“You don’t get to decide that,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
“I already did,” he counters. “The second I pulled you over that night.”
You shut your eyes for a moment. When you open them, he’s still there. Solid and immovable and unbearably calm.
“What if someone asks?” you whisper. “What if they push?”
“They will,” he says. “You hold the line. Say you made a mistake. Say it’s not their business. People love a secret. Makes them feel important, like they know more than the next person.”
His eyes flick over your face.
“You give them just enough to keep them from digging deeper,” he says. “Nothing they can use.”
“And you?” you ask, voice unsteady. “What are you telling people?”
He smiles, small and humorless.
“Nothing,” he says. “Because no one’s going to ask me where my baby is.”
You look down at your hands, at the swell that isn’t visible yet but feels like it’s already changed your center of gravity.
“This isn’t just your baby,” you say.
He reaches out, fingertips tipping your chin up until you have to look at him.
“You can tell them whatever version of the story helps you sleep at night,” he says quietly. “Doesn’t change who the father is.”
The words settle in your chest like a stone.
Your eyes sting. You blink hard, refusing to let tears fall in front of him.
He watches you for another beat, then drops his hand, stands.
“I’ll be around,” he says, like he’s talking about patrol routes.
Your heart jumps. “What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “Means I’m not going anywhere. You need something, you call me.”
“I’m not calling you,” you say.
He smirks.
“You will,” he says, like it’s fact, not prediction.
He heads for the door, pausing only to turn his radio back up to a low murmur. He picks up his hat, settling it back on his head with a practiced movement that makes him look like every cop you’ve ever seen on a recruitment poster.
You feel like you might throw up.
Hand on the doorknob, he glances back over his shoulder.
“Get some rest,” he says. “You’re gonna need it.”
You can’t summon a response.
He steps out into the night, closing the door behind him with the same soft finality he used on your car.
You sit there, staring at the wood grain until your vision blurs.
Only when you finally drag yourself to your feet and stumble to the bedroom do you realize you’re still shaking.
The town does exactly what he said it would.
It talks.
Whispers start as soon as you can’t hide behind baggy clothes and clever angles anymore. The first time someone’s eyes drop to your stomach and widen, you feel like you’re being emptied out and filled with static.
“Oh,” Mrs. Dorsey says at the grocery store, hand to her chest. “I didn’t know you were…expecting.”
You force a smile that feels like it might crack your face. “Yeah. Surprise.”
“Is the father…?” she trails off, letting the question hang.
“Not in the picture,” you say quickly. The lie tastes sour. “Just someone passing through.”
Her lips purse. You can’t tell if it’s judgment or pity. Maybe both.
You get used to that look. You get used to a lot of things.
The way conversations falter when you walk into a room. The way old classmates lean in to whisper to each other. The way strangers’ eyes linger just a little too long, curiosity and condemnation tangled together.
No one says Jack’s name.
That’s the whole point.
Linette is the exception.
She doesn’t look at you like you’re a scandal. She looks at you like you’re a puzzle she’s trying to solve without all the pieces.
She shows up one afternoon with a Tupperware of lasagna and a bag of maternity clothes she “just thought you might want to borrow.”
“I know we’re not exactly the same size,” she says, cheeks pink, “but some of my stuff has a lot of stretch, and I figured…”
You stare at the pile of soft fabrics, throat tight.
“That’s…really nice of you,” you say. Your voice sounds far away.
“Of course it is,” she says, like that’s obvious. “You think I’m going to let you waddle around town in jeans that don’t button? Please.”
You laugh weakly.
She glances down, then back up, eyes shining.
“See?” she says softly, reaching out to lightly touch the swell under your shirt. “I told you you’d be next.”
The world tilts.
You force yourself not to flinch away from her hand. Her palm is warm. Gentle. Completely unaware.
You swallow hard. “Yeah,” you manage. “You did.”
She smiles, radiant. “We’ll have our babies grow up together. Can you imagine?” She squeezes your arm. “You won’t have to do any of this alone, okay? You’ve got me.”
Your eyes burn. You nod, because anything you say might shatter something.
Movement in the doorway catches your attention. Jack leans against the frame, watching. He must’ve come in through the back; Linette doesn’t startle. She beams at him instead.
“There you are,” she says. “I was just telling her she’s stuck with us now.”
His gaze flicks from her face to the place where her hand rests on your stomach. Something passes through his expression. Brief. Sharp. Gone before Linette can turn and see it.
You see it.
Pride. Possession. Satisfaction.
He pushes off the frame and comes further into the room, dropping a kiss onto Linette’s temple. She turns into it easily, smiling up at him like he hung the moon.
You feel a little sick.
His eyes meet yours over her head.
There’s no shame there. No guilt.
Just that same faint smile. Like this is exactly how he always pictured it: his wife glowing with their child, his…whatever you are…carrying his secret.
Like this was always how it was meant to end.
Eeeeeeyikes! No kind of shame on him! Crazy what they’ll say if the baby looks like him. Think how wild that is!
⊝ pairing: James Cook x fem!reader
⊝ summary: He said ass, gas, or cash. You didn’t have the cash and he didn’t need the gas. Now your dealer’s fucking you harder than your degree ever could.
⊝ wc: 4k
⊝ a/n: That’s probably the most direct fic title and summary I’ve ever written lmao. Dedicated to Kat (@/sumnerslove on twitter) who said we needed more dealer Cook—this one’s for you, girlypop!! might turn this into a series tbh. thank you @scrprints for the photos of Cook.
⊝ warnings: drug use (weed/adderall), unprotected sex, explicit oral sex (m!receiving), face-fucking, gagging, choking, spit kink, degradation kink, creampie, breeding kink, masturbation, coercive dynamics, rough sex, cock slapping, messy/blowjob drool, reader gets called a slut (lovingly), size kink, begging kink, possessive behavior, overstimulation, fingering, dirty talk, reader pays for drugs with sex, dealer!james cook
⊝ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
⊝ Masterlist
You knock twice on the busted door before just letting yourself in. Cook’s never locked it—not once in all the times you’ve come here, and it creaks open with the same stubborn groan as always.
Inside smells like weed and something fried. Maybe both. You don’t really care.
“Oi oi,” Cook calls from the kitchen. “Back for more already? Didn’t even miss me, did ya?”
You shoot him a look over the open counter. “Missed the Adderall, not you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grins. “That’s what they all say.”
He’s got a pan in one hand, spatula in the other, like he’s been halfway through making god-knows-what when you showed up. Shirtless—of course—but at least this time he’s wearing jeans.
“Left it on the table,” he nods toward the squat coffee table in the living room, already littered with rolling papers and stray crumbs. “Same as always.”
You dig into your hoodie pocket, fingers curling around the folded cash.
“Twenty short,” he says before you even pull it out.
You freeze. “What?”
“Price went up,” Cook says easily, flicking off the burner like this is just casual conversation. “Inflation, innit? Economy’s fucked. Gotta adjust.”
You blink. “You’re charging more for the same shit you’ve always sold me?”
He leans in the doorway now, arms crossed. Smirking. “What can I say? Demand’s high. Product’s tight. And you’re not the only pretty little thing beggin’ for a pick-me-up.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, but you’re already counting again. You really are twenty short.
He shrugs, like this is all the same to him. “Ass, gas, or cash, yeah? And I don’t need petrol.”
You stare at him.
He doesn’t blink.
“…You’re joking.”
“Am I?”
There’s that little glint in his eye—the one he gets when he knows he’s said something that’s gonna push a button. The worst part is, he’s not even smug about it. Just calm. Lazy. Like this isn’t the first time someone’s come up short, and it isn’t the first time he’s offered…alternate forms of payment.
“Jesus,” you mutter, stepping back. “You’re actually serious.”
Cook uncrosses his arms, slow like he’s stretching, and tilts his head. “Look, I’m not makin’ you do anything. You can always go. Find some other dealer. Maybe they’ll let you Venmo.”
You hesitate. Just for a second.
His grin spreads like he’s caught it. “Oh. Oh, I see. You want me to be joking, but part of you’s thinkin’ about it.”
You don’t say anything.
He steps closer, that lazy swagger in his walk, eyes fixed on yours like he’s reading every thought. “How long you been buyin’ from me now?”
“Couple months.”
“And every time, you come in here, givin’ me shit, mouthin’ off—”
“Because you’re a dick.”
“—and yet you always come back.” He stops in front of you. Close. Too close. “You ever think maybe you like me talkin’ to you like that?”
You scoff, trying to step back, but the coffee table’s right there.
“Or maybe you just like the idea of me bendin’ you over it.”
“Fuck off,” you snap, but your voice is tighter than before. Your hands won’t stop twitching.
Cook raises his brows. “All right then. Fuck off it is.”
He backs away—but not far. Just enough to give you space to think. To breathe. The pills still sit on the edge of the table, just out of reach. He watches you with that maddening calm, like he knows exactly how this ends.
“Could’ve just told me before I came over,” you mutter, half to yourself.
“But then I wouldn’t get to see you squirm like this.”
You glare at him.
He licks his teeth. “C’mon. You got a smart fuckin’ mouth. Put it to use.”
Your stomach drops.
Cook catches it—lives for it—and steps back into your space. “Unless you’d rather bend over for it. Up to you. You get your meds either way.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he says, voice dropping low now. “But let’s not pretend you’re not soaked just thinkin’ about it.”
Your face burns. Your pulse is loud in your ears.
And the worst part is…he’s not wrong.
You don’t know when your mouth goes dry.
Maybe it’s when Cook steps closer again, all that lazy swagger gone from his walk—replaced with something heavier. Hungrier.
Or maybe it’s when he reaches down, palms the bulge in his jeans, and says it like a goddamn punch to the throat:
“Get on your knees.”
You blink up at him. Staring. Heart pounding.
“You want the pills?” he says again, voice softer now, lower. “Show me.”
You hesitate—but only for a breath. Then your knees hit the carpet with a soft thump.
Cook groans, head tipping back like just the sight of you down there is enough to make him hard. One hand drags through his hair; the other drops to his zipper.
“Fuckin’ knew it,” he mutters. “Knew you’d look good on your knees. Should’ve charged you short weeks ago.”
You open your mouth to snap back, but the words never come.
Not when he frees his cock from his jeans—already thick, already hard—and strokes it once, slow and heavy, just to watch your lips part again.
“Yeah?” he grins. “Got nothin’ to say now?”
You glare up at him. He chuckles and taps the head of his cock against your cheek. Just once.
Then again—slap—a little firmer.
Your breath hitches.
Cook’s grin widens.
“Look at that. All that attitude, gone. Where’s that mouth now, sweetheart?”
You narrow your eyes—but your thighs press together.
He knows.
The next tap lands right on your lips. Then again, firmer. The head of his cock glistens with precum now, and he watches it smear across your mouth with something damn near reverent.
“Open up.”
You hesitate.
He grips your jaw—not hard, just enough to tilt your chin.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
You open.
And he moans—a low, raw sound that punches straight to your core.
“Good little slut.”
His cock slides past your lips slowly, dragging across your tongue inch by inch. You try to breathe through your nose, try to pace it, but he’s thick and heavy, and your eyes start to water before he’s even halfway in.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Cook groans. “Take it, yeah? Knew that smart little mouth could do more than just talk shit.”
You try to glare up at him, but your mouth’s too full.
He pulls out almost completely, just enough to let you catch your breath—and then taps the tip of his cock against your tongue. Slap. Slap. It’s wet and obscene and filthy and he’s watching your drool drip down your chin with a look that says he might actually cum just from the sight.
“Messy girl,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even get started and you’re already fuckin’ drooling.”
He fists your hair, tugs gently. You moan around him, and that makes him twitch in your mouth.
“Oh, you like that,” he laughs. “Course you fuckin’ do. Bet you’re so wet it hurts.”
You don’t answer—you can’t—but your thighs clench again, and Cook notices.
“Touch yourself,” he says, voice gone ragged.
You hesitate. He pulls your mouth off him with a wet pop, cock glistening.
“Did I stutter?”
Your hand slides down, trembling.
Cook watches like a man possessed, stroking himself with your spit as you slip your fingers between your legs, under the waistband.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans. “Don’t stop. Put that mouth back where it belongs.”
You take him in again—deeper this time, throat burning, spit stringing from your lips down to your chin. He starts thrusting now, slow at first, then faster. His hips roll forward, lazy but relentless, and your jaw aches from the stretch.
“You wanted this,” he pants. “You knew you’d end up here. Wanted to act all high and mighty, pretendin’ you weren’t thinkin’ about suckin’ my cock every time you knocked on that door.”
You moan around him.
“Yeah. Just like that. Fuck—fuck—you’re good at this.”
Your fingers move faster. You’re desperate now, soaking wet, and he knows. He can see it in your eyes.
He fucks your throat a little deeper—just enough to make you gag once—and your hand jerks between your thighs, your hips twitching. You’re so close.
Cook groans, pulls back, and fists his cock again, the tip red and glistening.
“You close?”
You nod, mouth open, drool running down your chin and onto your chest.
He laughs—low and dark and fucking feral.
“You wanna cum, you better earn those pills.”
He slaps the head of his cock against your cheek again. Wet, sticky sounds echo in the room.
You open your mouth again, tongue out, obedient now.
He thrusts back in.
Cook grabs a fistful of your hair, wraps it tight, and slides his cock back past your lips like it belongs there—like you were meant for this. His hips start to move, lazy at first, just letting the head of his cock drag across your tongue again and again. Salty. Heavy. Leaking. Every pass makes your eyes water worse, drool spilling in hot ropes down your chin and onto your hand, still working between your legs.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “There you fuckin’ go.”
You moan around him, gag once when he pushes deeper—and that just makes him groan. His grip tightens. His pace picks up.
“Fuckin’ perfect mouth,” he grits out. “You were made for this.”
Your jaw’s aching now, throat raw, spit absolutely everywhere. It’s dripping from your chin, smearing down your neck, pooling at the corners of your mouth—but he doesn’t care. If anything, he’s inspired by it.
He pulls back just enough to tap the soaked head against your tongue again. Slap. Slap. Your tongue lolls out like instinct, chasing it. He smirks, dark and satisfied.
“Look at you,” he croons. “Didn’t even have to train you. You’re just a natural little cockslut, aren’t you?”
You can’t answer, not with your mouth stuffed again. Not with the way his pace starts to pick up, rougher now, needy. He’s fucking your mouth—no other word for it—driving his cock in and out of your throat while you drool and gag and moan like a fucking porn star.
“Bet no one’s ever used you like this before,” he pants. “Bet you’ve never had someone own your fuckin’ mouth.”
You whimper. Loud.
Your fingers are frantic between your legs now, hips twitching, your whole body humming with it—heat crawling up your spine, pooling low, winding tight. You’re so fucking close, and he knows it.
“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Want you to cum with my cock down your throat. Wanna feel it when you fall apart.”
He keeps fucking your mouth, relentless, his hips slapping into your face, cock hitting the back of your throat over and over until your eyes blur with tears. You can barely breathe—only catch short gasps when he pulls back enough to let you—but that pressure just makes the heat spike higher.
You moan around him. Loud. Desperate.
“Yeah?” he pants. “That’s it—fuckin’ cum, you filthy little thing. Rub that needy little cunt raw for me.”
That’s all it takes.
You cry out around his cock, fingers soaked, body wracked with tremors as the orgasm crashes over you. It’s messy. Shaky. Loud. You’re gasping, drooling, thighs twitching as you grind through it, moaning so loud that Cook shudders.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he hisses. “Knew it. Knew you were a fuckin’ mess under all that mouth.”
You try to pull back—just to breathe—but he holds you there, both hands in your hair now, fucking your mouth harder. Sloppier.
“Not done,” he growls. “Don’t you fuckin’ stop now.”
You choke again. He groans.
“I’m close,” he warns, voice rough and frantic now. “Gonna cum down your throat if you don’t—fuck—don’t move—don’t—”
His hips stutter.
You brace for it—
And then he’s moaning, loud, cock twitching as he spills down your throat without warning, without pause. It’s hot and thick, and you’re too slow to react, already swallowing before you can even think about it. He doesn’t pull out. Not right away. Just holds you there, cock still pulsing, his grip tight in your hair as you whimper against him, throat working.
“Fucking hell,” Cook pants. “You’re unreal.”
When he finally pulls out, your mouth is a mess—lips swollen, chin glistening, strings of spit and cum still connecting you. You gasp for breath, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, but he just tucks himself back into his jeans like this is the most normal thing in the world.
He leans down.
Takes the bottle of pills off the table.
Drops it into your hoodie pocket.
“You earned it.”
You look up at him, chest still heaving.
Cook grins.
“You come up short next time too, yeah?”
You’re still on your knees.
Still breathing like you just ran a mile. Legs shaking, mouth sore, jaw slack. Your hoodie’s pulled crooked, hands still sticky from where you came on your fingers. And you can feel it—the mess in your throat, the ache in your thighs, the heat still pulsing low in your belly like you never came down from it.
Cook sits back on the shitty couch like nothing just happened. Like you didn’t just let him fuck your throat until you came and swallowed every drop.
He’s grinning, of course.
Flicking his lighter to spark the half-dead joint sitting in the ashtray like this is a regular Tuesday afternoon.
He takes a long drag. Exhales. Then leans forward, lazily resting his elbows on his knees, watching you with that look—cocky, possessive, hungry even though he already came.
“You look wrecked.”
You don’t say anything. Can’t. You’re still catching your breath, blinking through the aftershocks.
Cook grins wider. “That good, was it?”
You roll your eyes and try to get up—but your legs don’t wanna work.
“Oh my god,” he laughs, voice full of wicked delight. “You can’t even stand?”
“Shut up,” you rasp, finally managing to push off the carpet. Your knees pop. Everything aches.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but there’s a different note under the teasing now. Something warmer. “C’mere.”
You hesitate—but only a second. Then you drop beside him on the couch, still flushed and loose-limbed, the afterglow still clinging to your skin like sweat.
He offers the joint.
You take it.
One drag in, and your head tips back against the wall with a sigh. Cook watches you, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to burn it into his memory.
“You ever sucked someone off for drugs before?” he asks, too casually.
You give him a side-eye. “No.”
“Yeah?” he smirks. “Could’ve fooled me. Took to it like a fuckin’ champ.”
You exhale smoke, blow it in his direction. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re filthy,” he shoots back. “Droolin’ all over yourself, fuckin’ whimperin’ on my cock. You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over and fuck you stupid after.”
You clench your thighs at that—he sees it—and his grin turns feral again.
“Next time,” he murmurs. “If you’re short again…”
You don’t respond. You don’t need to.
Because your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You check it.
Reminder: Chem Lab - Friday @ 11AM
Cook sees you looking at your screen. Sees the wheels turning. His smile goes lazy.
“Friday, then?”
You arch a brow. “That’s assuming I’ll be short again.”
He snorts. “Babe. You will be.”
You don’t argue. Not really. Just slide your phone back in your pocket, stand slowly—your thighs still shaking a little—and head toward the door.
“Leave it open,” he calls after you.
You pause. Look back. “What?”
“I said don’t close it,” he says, already leaning back, joint between his teeth. “I like the idea of someone walkin’ by and knowin’ what I do to you.”
You don’t answer.
But you don’t close it either.
You’re halfway down the stairwell when your phone buzzes again.
Cook: I’ll be hard by the time I buzz you in.
You stare at it.
Then you type:
You: I’m gonna be short again Friday.
Send.
You knock once this time.
Not twice. Not loud. Just enough to let him know you're here.
The door creaks open a second later—Cook’s already there, shirtless, joint in one hand, jeans slung so low they might be falling off.
His eyes drag over you once, slow.
Then he leans against the doorframe, exhaling smoke through a grin.
“Well, well, well,” he says, voice low and smug. “Look who remembered Friday.”
You shrug. Try to act cool.
He doesn’t move. Just tilts his head and waits. “You got it?”
You blink. “Got what?”
“The cash.”
You pat your hoodie pockets like you just realized something. “Shit. I think I…left my wallet.”
Cook stares at you.
And then he laughs.
Full belly laugh, eyes crinkling, tongue against his teeth like you just told him the funniest thing in the world.
“Forgot your wallet,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You are so fucking full of it.”
You cross your arms. “I’m serious.”
“Bollocks you are,” he snorts. “You showed up without it on purpose.”
You open your mouth.
He cuts you off. “Nah, nah, don’t even try. You knew what was gonna happen. You wanted it to happen.”
You don’t deny it.
His grin sharpens.
“You could’ve texted and asked,” he says, voice dropping. “Could’ve said, ‘Cook, I want your cock down my throat again. Please.’”
“I would never say please,” you mutter.
He steps back just far enough to let you in. “Then you’d better earn it the hard way.”
The door shuts behind you.
He doesn’t ask you to kneel this time.
He doesn’t have to.
You’re already on the floor when he unzips his jeans.
Already reaching for him when his cock springs free, already hard—thick, flushed, leaking.
“Jesus,” you mutter, unable to stop the flush that creeps up your neck.
“Yeah?” he grins. “Missed it, didn’t you?”
You glare. “Shut up.”
He taps the head of his cock against your lips. Slap. Slap.
“Open up then.”
You do.
And he groans, deep and filthy, one hand fisting your hair immediately. No warm-up this time. No slow tease. He sinks in hard enough to make you choke, and he doesn’t stop.
“That’s it,” he pants, already fucking into your throat like he’s been needing it for days. “Missed this fuckin’ mouth.”
Your hands fly to his thighs, bracing yourself as he uses your mouth like a toy—deep, fast, relentless. You gag, spit dribbling down your chin already, but it only makes him growl.
“Yeah, fuckin’ take it,” he groans. “You came here beggin’ for it, actin’ all innocent—forgot your wallet my fuckin’ arse.”
He thrusts deep. Holds.
You gag around him, throat fluttering.
“You wanted this,” he growls. “Wanted to choke on it. Wanted to be used.”
You moan, mouth full, eyes watering. His cock slides in and out, slick with spit, head tapping your throat over and over until you’re dizzy with it.
He pulls back just far enough to slap the tip against your tongue again. Hard. Wet.
“Open wider.”
You do.
“Wider, babe. I wanna see how far I can fuckin’ go.”
You brace. He shoves back in.
Your jaw aches.
Your throat burns.
And Cook is still fucking your mouth like he’s got something to prove.
He pulls out abruptly, cock slick and shining, breath ragged as he looks down at you—eyes blown, chest heaving, jaw tight like he’s barely holding it together.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Stand up.”
You don’t argue.
Your legs wobble when you rise, knees weak, mouth sore and wet, spit still glistening at the corner of your lips. Cook watches it, thumb swiping across your mouth without warning, smearing it over your skin before pushing the same thumb back between your lips.
“Suck,” he orders.
You do.
He groans low in his throat, then pulls his hand away and grips your wrist instead.
“But nah,” he says, voice rough now, hungry. “That’s not gonna fuckin’ cover it.”
You blink. “What?”
He steps closer, backs you up until you feel the edge of the couch hit behind your knees.
“You forgot your wallet,” he says slowly. “That means you owe me more.”
Your pulse spikes.
“Cook—”
He pushes you down onto the couch in one firm motion, looming over you, cock still hard and leaking. “I already let you get off on my cock last time. That was interest.”
You swallow.
“So now,” he continues, climbing over you, “you’re gonna pay the fuckin’ balance.”
His hand slides down between your legs, unceremonious, fingers immediately finding how soaked you are. He groans like it pisses him off.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You came here like this. Already fuckin’ ready.”
You gasp as he pushes two fingers inside without warning—no teasing, no mercy—curling them just right.
“Answer me,” he growls. “You forgot your wallet on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” you breathe.
His fingers fuck into you harder. “Say it louder.”
“Yes,” you whimper. “I did.”
He pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, then lines himself up without another word.
You barely get a breath in before he pushes in.
Slow. Heavy. Stretching you open inch by inch until you’re gasping, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Missed this.”
You whine, hips lifting instinctively, desperate for him to move—but he stays still, cock buried deep, letting you feel every inch of him.
“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s what you’re payin’ me with.”
Then he starts to fuck you.
Hard.
No rhythm. No patience. Just raw, greedy thrusts that knock the air out of your lungs, the couch creaking beneath you as he sets a brutal pace. He grabs your thighs, hauling you closer, fucking deeper until you’re gasping his name.
“Look at you,” he pants. “All this just because you ‘forgot’ your fuckin’ wallet.”
You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist, desperate and needy and completely gone.
He leans down, mouth at your ear. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you wanted this.”
“I wanted this,” you gasp.
“That you came here to get fucked.”
“Yes—”
“That you’re payin’ me with this tight little cunt.”
You cry out, body arching as his thrusts get harder, faster, filthier. He’s muttering nonstop now—dirty, breathless, unhinged—telling you how good you feel, how he knew you’d come back, how he’s been hard all day just thinking about this.
Your whole body tightens.
You’re close—so close—and he feels it immediately.
“Oh no you don’t,” he growls, pulling your hips down, slowing just enough to torture you. “You don’t get to cum yet.”
“Cook—”
“You still owe me.”
His hand slides down between you, thumb pressing circles just where you need it most while he keeps fucking you slow and deep.
“You’re gonna cum when I say,” he mutters. “And when I do, you’re gonna take it like a good fuckin’ customer.”
Your breath breaks. Your body shakes.
He watches you unravel, eyes locked on your face, completely wrecking you on his cock until you’re begging, voice shaking, nails digging in.
“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s my good girl.”
He snaps his hips harder, faster, thumb relentless now—and when you finally shatter, it’s violent and loud, your whole body clenching around him.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he groans. “That’s it—that’s it—”
He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, thrusts going sloppy and desperate until he finally buries himself deep and cums with a broken sound against your neck.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Just breathing. Heat. Aftershocks.
Then he pulls back slightly, smirking down at you.
“Wallet next time,” he says. “Or we renegotiate again.”
I saw this under chapter and got super excited BUT anyway
I literally fucking screamed
WIP Update
Shadows Like Mine is officially halfway finished! Two weeks until release! The only things I'll probably be updating are my author's notes lol.
I'm going to be sick.
Am I in the wrong?
You don't understand. Otherwise, we writers get flagged for 'historical inaccuracy'.
God if this is not me. That’s why I take forever.
Technology transparent PNGs
free 2 use
I made a thing
“So,” he says. “The girl.” “What girl?” Sukuna grouses. Kenjaku chuckles. “She’s a sorcerer, then?” Kenjaku asks in a light tone. “She mentioned you’ve taken her on as a pupil. Or…do your interests lie elsewhere? Is she your pet, perhaps?” Sukuna’s eyes flare. “If you value your head—which I know is the only thing you value, Kenjaku—you’ll cease your prodding. The girl was hired to entertain, and that is what she does. That she is a sorcerer is of no concern to me.”
The Invitation [𑁍]
See…but the thing about having German shepherds. They break shit. Then give you puppy dog eyes with no remorse.
An old commission for The Invitation done by satanISA on IG/X.
⛩️🏯🛖🤎
Everyone shut up! I love this
Some real close friends
No but YOU don’t understand!
